Sheridan didn’t react. “What are you doing here?”
“Endangered species protection. There’s a very rare creature in that cave up there.”
Val winced. “Were you supposed to tell him that?” she whispered.
“How did you know to come here?” Sheridan asked.
“This is the habitat of the California red-legged frog, very endangered. I saw your SWAT vehicle go by and the driver had that ‘I want to kill some rare frogs’ look in his eye.” Gabe looked at one of the other SWAT guys, a stocky Hispanic man who was glaring at him over the sights of his M-16. “See, there’s that look right there.”
“We didn’t bring the SWAT vehicle,” Sheridan said flatly.
“Actually,” Val jumped in, “I’m a clinical psychologist. I have experience in hostage negotiation. I heard the SWAT team being dispatched on my scanner at home, and since you’re so far north, I thought you might need some help. Dr. Fenton agreed to ride along with me.”
“We weren’t dispatched over the radio,” Sheridan said, dismissing Val as if she were an insect. He looked at Howard. “And you?”
“Howard Phillips. I’m merely here to observe a hideous ancient creature that has arisen from the darkest Stygian depths to wreak havoc on civilization and feast on human flesh.” Howard smiled (the smile of an undertaker at the news of a big bus crash, but a smile nonetheless).
Sheridan stared blankly at H.P., saying nothing.
“He’s the caterer,” Gabe said quickly. “We brought him along to get your order. I’ll bet none of you guys remembered to pack a lunch, did you?”
“Who did you tell you were coming here?”
Gabe looked at Val and Howard for some clue as to the right answer. “No one,” he said.
Sheridan nodded. “We are going to put you in the back of that truck over there for your own safety,” he said. Then to the others he said, “Lock them in the K-9 unit. We’ve got to go.”
Thirty
“Listen,” Theo said, cocking his ear toward the cave mouth. “Vehicles. The SWAT team is here.”
Molly glanced to the back of the cave. From the light of the colors Steve was flashing she could see that the pilgrims had surrounded the Sea Beast and were stroking his scales. She turned back to Theo. “You’ve got to stop the helicopters. Call them and stop it.”
“Molly, it’s not the news helicopters that will hurt him, or us. It’s those guys who just pulled up.” Theo peeked out the mouth of the cave and saw two four-wheel-drives parking down on the marine terrace, about a hundred yards from the cave mouth. Of course, he thought, they still think they need cover.
Molly brandished her broadsword, holding it only inches from Theo’s stomach. “If he’s hurt, I’ll never forgive you, Theo Crowe. I’ll track you down to the ends of the earth and kill you like the radioactive scum that you are.”
“That Kendra or Molly talking?”
“I mean it,” she screamed, almost hysterical now. Steve roared from the back of the cave.
“Don’t go nuts on me, Molly. I’m doing my best. But the only thing your pal seems likely to do is eat me. He doesn’t seemed real motivated by anything else.”
Molly slumped to her knees and hung her head as if someone had sucked the energy out of her through a valve in her boot. Theo fought the urge to comfort her, afraid that if he even touched her shoulder the Sea Beast might attack him.
Then it hit him. He flipped open his cell phone and dialed the Head of the Slug.
Mavis Sand had spent a lifetime making mistakes and learning from them, and that perspective made her feel as if she knew what was good for people better than they knew themselves. Consequently, Mavis was a meddler. Most of the time she was content to use information as her tool of choice and rumor as her means of delivery. What someone knew—and when they knew it—controlled what they did. (The Spider, pulling digital strings from his basement web, had exactly the same philosophy.) Today she’d had a heap of problems dumped on her, none of them directly hers, and she had been pondering them all morning without much luck in coming up with a way to manipulate the information to solve them. Then the call came from Theo, and it all clicked: Theo was right, they could use the monster’s instincts to get them out of the cave, but if she played the mix right, she could solve a couple of other problems as well.
She put down the phone and Catfish said, “Who that?”
“It was Theo.”
“That ol‘ dragon ain’t et him yet? Boy must be livin a charmed life.”
Mavis leaned over the bar, close to Catfish, took his hand in hers, and began squeezing. “Sweetie, put on your friendly persuasion hat. I need you to run down to the pharmacy and pick up something for me.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Catfish said, wincing as the bones in his fingers compressed under her grip.
When the Bluesman was gone, Mavis made a quick phone call, then went to the back room and dug through boxes and filling cabinets until she came up with what she was looking for: a small black box attached to a long cord with a cigarette lighter plug on the end. “Don’t worry, Theo,” she said to herself. “I put my life in the hands of machinery a long time ago, and I’m doing just fine.” She giggled and it came out sounding like the starter cranking on a fuel dry Ford.
A Bluesman hates to be told what to do. Authority rankles him, inspires his rebellion, and plays to his need to self-destruct. A Bluesman doesn’t take to having a boss unless he’s on a chain gang (for the chain gang boss ranks below only a mean old woman and a sweet young thing in the hierarchy of the Blues Muse, followed closely by bad liquor, a dead dog, and the Man). Catfish had a boss who was a mean old woman: a distinct and disconcerting turn of the Blues screw that might have driven a lesser Bluesman to shoot hisself, get shot, get hold of some bad liquor, or bust up his guitar and take a job down to the mill. But Catfish hadn’t taken nigh unto eighty trips around that cruel, cruel sun without gaining some perspective, so he would go to the pharmacy as he was told. He would talk to the fish-fucking white boy with the combed-over hair that waved in the air like the sprung lid on a bean can. And when he was done, he would pick up his pay from the mean old woman who was holding it hostage and he would get his wrinkly Black ass out of this town and go nurse his heartbreak on the moving trap that was, is, and always shall be the road.
So Catfish strolled a rolling Delta moonwalk of a stroll (redolent of sassafras and jive) into Pine Cove Drug and Gift, and the four blue-haired chicken women behind the counter nearly tumbled over each other trying to get to the back room. Imagine it: a person of the Dark persuasion in their midst. What if he should ask for a vial of Afro-Sheen or some other ethnically oriented product with which they were totally unfamiliar? Why, the smoke alarms would melt, screaming like dying witches, when their collective minds steamed to a stop. Do we look like thrill-seekers? Wasn’t it enough that we had to put up that sign reading NO HABLA ESPANOL and acknowledge the existence of thirty percent of the population, even in the negative? No, we shall err on the side of safety, thank you, and in lieu of sand in which to bury our heads, we shall head into the back room.
Winston Krauss, who was counting fake Zolofts behind his glass wall, looked up and saw Catfish coming down the aisle toward the counter and immediately regretted that he hadn’t installed bulletproof glass. Still, Winston was a man of the world, and you don’t indulge the fantasy of molesting dolphins without becoming familiar with the ways of people of color, for that is who dolphins prefer to hang out with, when they aren’t hanging out with the Cousteaus, or so it appeared on the Discovery Channel. He stepped out of his booth and met Catfish as he reached the counter.